by Lexi Whitlow
“You okay?” Hayes asks me, his voice filling the small room. I jump.
“Fine.” I catch his scent again and it’s almost overwhelming. It’s hard to concentrate on the work when he’s this close.
I hear a metal reel hit the countertop and bounce, then bounce again on the floor and roll, clattering past my feet.
“Damn,” Hayes mumbles. I hear him moving around, then I feel him bumping into me as his hands search the floor for the errant reel.
“Loose something?” I ask, not laughing because I think he may have done that on purpose.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice coming from a spot low and beside me. His shoulder grazes my knee, then a hand lands on top of my foot. It lingers a moment. “Those god-damned boots,” he says with a low rumble in his voice. “Remind me to sneak into your apartment, find those boots, and hide them until at least the end of the semester.”
He locates the reel and pops back up, returning to the work at hand.
“Don’t blame my boots,” I say. “My boots never did anything to earn your disapproval.”
I hear him huff as he finishes another roll of film, dropping it with a rattle into the metal tank. “I don’t disapprove of your boots,” he assures me. “The problem is, I approve too much. Those boots and I have history, and they keep insinuating themselves into the present in the most unwelcome ways.”
“Unwelcome?” I laugh back, then wish I hadn’t gone there.
He stays quiet, finishing all six roles before I have my two tanks of sheet film loaded correctly.
“You done?” he asks me. He’s facing me. Even in the perfectly opaque, inky blackness of this light-proof room, I feel the heat of his gaze on me, drilling into me like a laser.
“Almost,” I say. “I just need to double check to make sure…”
He steps up behind me, his arms coming around my sides, his hands finding mine. My breath catches, seizing in my lungs. His fingers trace my fingers along the lines of the four-by-five film carrier, feeling for the notches in the sheets, making certain they’re all lined up properly. The front of his body shifts, brushing close to the back of mine. The hair on his arms grazes my skin. His hands wrap mine, his fingers tracing the lines of my fingers.
“Everything feels good to me.” It’s a low purr breathed into my ear. “Everything feels right.”
When I can breathe again, I haul in a lung full, then I find the tank lids and cap them.
“Let’s go develop these, and get out of here,” I say almost breathlessly, trying hard—really hard—not to acknowledge the second pass he’s made at me in two days. “Your tanks all capped?”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “All ready to go.”
I lean forward and open the door, allowing a flood of red light to illuminate the room. Hayes takes a step back, then follows me out to the work room.
Working in silence together we measure and mix the chemicals, setting the closed decanters of developer in pre-heated water.
Hayes works like he’s done this a thousand times. He checks the thermometer on his container of developer, and after just a moment of patience while the temp climbs from seventy to seventy-two, he sets a timer on the wall over the sink, fills the film tanks and begins.
I’m slower in the process, double and triple checking everything I do, second-guessing myself. With film, there is no do-over. Screw it up and you lose everything, forever.
The environment of the darkrooms is subterranean. The trickle of running water at the sinks and the whoosh of air from the vents overhead, combined with the low, surreal light, makes for a mood difficult to recreate in the daylight. The smell of chemicals adds to the sensory confusion. It makes my mind tilt.
When the most time-critical, easy to screw-up portion of the process is done, we both relax. He pours off the stop bath, then adds chemical fixer. With his tanks in hand, agitating them in intervals, he turns to me, breaking the silence.
“Have you got help moving tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod. “Greg and Paul are helping me.”
“Can I help too?”
“If you want,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of stuff, so it’s not really a four-man job.”
“That’s not why I want to help.”
“Why do you want to help?” I’m afraid to ask.
He smiles, “I saw how your friends were looking at me tonight,” he says. “And I saw Paul talking to you. About me.”
“And?” I ask.
“And, I don’t want them to think I’m the complete asshole they think I am.”
He pours out the fixer, refilling the containers with clear water.
“They’re your friends,” he says. “I’d prefer they didn’t hate me. Because I want to be your friend—more than your friend. I don’t want to be the guy all your friends hate.”
Jesus. Has it been thirty seconds or forty? He’s made me lose track of what I’m doing. I try to focus. I have no idea what to say to Hayes. He’s moving faster than my brain can keep up with.
When we’re done with the entire process we head outside the darkroom and hang the long strips and sheets of film to dry on wire lines stretched across the far end of the junior studio.
“Let’s go home,” Hayes says, gathering his jacket under his arm.
I check my watch. It’s five-thirty in the morning. I’ve hit my second wind. This always happens when I pull an all-nighter. I’m tired, dead on my feet when I start, but when it’s time to go home and try to sleep, I’m wide awake.
His car is warm and cozy against the pre-dawn, early autumn chill. The drive home is brief. He pulls into the alley behind the house, choosing to park in the garage instead of on the street. I’m guessing that’s because I’m going to have a moving truck there tomorrow—no, today. Saturday is already here.
“You need a ride to pick up the truck?” Hayes asks, turning the key, shutting down the engine.
“Greg and Paul are picking me up to go get it.”
“What time?”
“Eleven.”
He smiles. “Time to catch a little sleep then?”
I nod.
Hayes turns to me, hesitation in his expression, serious doubt darkening his blue eyes. “Can I come upstairs with you?” he asks. “I want to kiss you. Really kiss you. But not at school, or in the car. I promise you, that’s all, and I’ll leave when you tell me to.”
I close my eyes, a thousand conflicting thoughts all crashing in my head at once. The one that emerges from the scrum is an irrational one. It says, If you’re going to make this mistake, at least make it with the boy you always imagined making it with. The boy no one else could ever hold a candle to.
“For just a little while,” I hear myself saying. “Not long.”
He follows me up the steps, and as soon as I’ve opened the door, I feel his hands fall to my waist from behind me, turning me around. He backs me into the room, his strong arms slipping around me, steadying me, drawing my body so close to his there’s no breathing room between us. Hayes parts my lips with his and I feel his seeking tongue, licking, sucking, probing. His mouth opens and he drinks me in, kissing me with a heat and wanting that I’ve never felt before.
He melts me. My body responds unconsciously, meeting his heat, returning it. I don’t even know what I’m doing, except it feels right. Some part of me that didn’t have agency before has come alive and is taking charge.
Hayes sweeps me backward, dropping me onto the couch without breaking the kiss. He’s on top of me, his mouth closed on mine, his breath fast and warm against my skin. My hands find his shoulders and broad back, slipping inquisitively over the ripple of muscle and turn of hard bone. I’ve never felt anything like this. I ache all over. I want to slide my fingers over every square inch of his perfect form.
He breaks the kiss, training his lips on my cheeks, my eyelids, gently biting at the nape of my neck and earlobes, breathing in heaving gasps of me as he works.
I hear myself release a feeble moan as his hand slides
over my breast, his finger finding the peak of my nipple, turning it, raising it, hardening it with his attentions. The sensation sends a pang of tense, aching pleasure straight down to the pit of my belly. I arch into him, my knees spreading, drawing his hips close to me.
Oh fuck? What is he doing to me?
His fingers slip under my shirt, lifting it, exposing more of my sensitive flesh to his wet lips, his probing, active tongue. His teeth graze a nipple and I cry, stifling more that wants to come out. I feel sticky wetness between my legs, the heat I feel for him spilling out of my body in liquid form.
He never stops kissing me, his mouth finding pleasure, giving pleasure, alternating between my lips, my breasts, my shoulders and belly. He rocks his hips into me, and behind the thick fabric of his jeans, I feel the tight, stiffness pressing into my sex. It’s the most perfect feeling my body has ever experienced, that hardness, arching into my soft places, crushing against me, rubbing pleasure into my folds, and over my stiff little clit.
“I want to taste you,” Hayes half-growls into the flesh of my belly, his hands dropping to the exposed skin of my upper thighs. “I need to taste you.”
If I wanted to stop him, I’m not sure I could, but I don’t want to. I want to feel him all over me, owning me, showing me what this thing that’s happening between us is all about. I’ve read about it. I’ve seen it in films, but this… this is new.
His hands hook the band of my panties under my skirt. He lifts me up so he can pull them down, sitting up just long enough to accomplish the logistics of it. When he looks down at me, my panties in his hand, he’s wearing an expression I can’t describe. His eyes are dark but shining, his smile is mischievous. He lifts my panties to his nose and sniffs, then lets out a moan before dipping down, pulling my ass toward him, his lips falling to the tender flesh of my inner thighs.
What he does next defies proper description. Lips and tongue find places on me, in me, that I wasn’t aware of before.
“Oh god…” I hear my voice, high and pitched, cry out, as I feel him suck some long-denied part of me forward. His rhythm is mystic, his lips make my mind go numb. I lose all track of myself in space and time, feeling only the all-consuming pleasure of his face buried in me, kissing, sucking, his scratchy beard roughing the most tender parts of me.
He lifts my legs up onto his back, my cowboy boots still on, and then I feel his hand slip in, under his mouth, a probing finger circles me tentatively while his tongue works, lapping at my clit and folds.
He glides inside and I arch high, feeling a foreign pressure along with a sensation of fullness that makes me want to scream. Slowly he begins moving in and out, his fist pressing with each gentle thrust. That finger, it finds a place deep inside me, and keeps finding it over and again, until my entire body shudders, heaving, wracked uncontrollably by the most unaccountable physical sensation I’ve ever known. The spasm washes back and forth, deafening me to my own cries, seizing me with something maddening that lasts only a moment before it subsides.
What a moment.
I’m still quivering, gushing wet and slick, breathless, when Hayes laps the last bit of orgasm out of me. He lifts slowly, severing our connection. When I can finally open my eyes and focus, I see he’s wearing a self-satisfied expression and a glistening wet face which he wipes with his arm. He comes back down over me, hovering above me, and he slips his tongue, salty and creamy, into my mouth, kissing me hard and gently at the same time.
“You taste like bliss,” he whispers into my ear. “Just like I dreamed of all these years. Pure bliss.”
I can’t even think straight. What the hell was that?
Hayes sits back on his haunches, regarding me. He smiles, then he starts laughing. He shakes his head, then he takes my hand in his, circling it, holding it tight against his thigh.
“Was that your first orgasm?” he asks me, eyes narrowed with question.
Good lord. I can’t breathe.
I realize my expression must be something neither one of us are accustomed to. I’m flushed, and bleary. I’m weak like a rag doll, spread out beneath him; defenseless.
“I think so,” I say. “If that’s what that was, it’s sure never happened before.”
Hayes casts his eyes up at the ceiling, then back down at me. “Fuck,” he breathes, taking me in from head to cowboy boot clad heel. “Fuck me, you’re going to break my heart to pieces and feed it back to me.”
He leans down again and begins showering me with sweet, chaste kisses, taking his time, like he’s making a votive offering.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he says between kisses. “I’m so glad you let me give you that. That you let me be the first one to give you that.” He pulls my bra back into place, then slips my shirt down. He smooths my skirt and then he sits back, pulling a boot clad foot into his lap, holding it with both hands. He levels his eyes on mine. “That was a lot of fun,” he says. “Next steps are a lot more fun.”
He regards me carefully. “I won’t push you to go there, but when you’re ready, I want to be the one who takes you there. You hear me?”
I nod.
I am so done for. He owns me.
Chapter 10
Hayes
Coffee. Coffee was invented for mornings like this. My head hurts and is foggy from lack of sleep. I’ve got a twinge in my shoulder from the angle and exertion from last night. But damn, that was worth every minor complaint. The aches and pains will fade, the recollection of being up to my nose in Chloe, her coming on my face, in my hand, her cries and her fists pulling my hair and gripping nails into my shoulder? I will never forget that as long as I live.
Every other time, the fantasy has left reality lacking. This time, my fantasies of Chloe pale in comparison to the real thing. She’s liquid heat. She’s as comfortable with her body as she is in her old cowboy boots, which makes her a rare specimen, indeed. I have no idea where this is going, but I’m looking forward to the trip.
I need another shower. I can still smell her on me, even after washing up last night.
I had to leave her, as much as I wanted to linger. If I’d stayed, we would have gone further, or I would have died from a stroke caused by maintaining the longest-lasting, hardest erection of all-time. I had to deal with that—or die. Stroking myself off in the shower, all I could think of was how tight she felt in my hand. Big enough for one finger. Two might have hurt her. If she’s that tight, she’s going to feel incredible wrapped around my cock, all slick and hot. When she cums, she’s going to squeeze every ounce of life out of me.
I came so hard last night, all by myself in the running water of the shower, just thinking about Chloe under me, milking me with her tight body, her hard clit rubbing against my shaft. By the time I got in bed and laid my head down to sleep I was hard again. The girl is under my skin, into my soul, and dug in. I don’t want to ever let her go.
But it’s complicated.
I look at my watch and take a big gulp of coffee. In exactly one hour I have to face her friends, trying to convince them that I’m not a bad guy. I also have to spend a few hours in Chloe’s company without separating her from her clothes and doing unspeakable things to her gorgeous body.
I have my work cut out for me.
After showering, I dab a little aftershave on because I think Chloe likes it. It’s a scent from my mother’s collection called Haus No. 6—very inventive. I have no idea what’s in it, but it’s subtle, not sweet, and when I wear it, women stand closer. Sometimes that’s not a good thing, but with Chloe it’s everything.
At ten thirty I skip across the back yard and up her steps, bearing a steaming hot mug of coffee. I knock on her door. After a few minutes I hear her stomping across the floor.
She opens the door, her face a picture of sleepless fatigue and confusion.
“I overslept,” she whines, shielding her eyes against the sun behind me.
I hand her the cup. “Drink some coffee. Jump in the shower. Pull on
some clothes, and if the guys get here, I’ll stall them,” I say. “You’ll be fine.”
She regards me with a troubled, questioning expression. I step inside the door, closing it behind me, then lean in close and kiss her. She melts against me, surrendering to the kiss. When I pull back, I kiss her forehead.
“No regrets,” I whisper. “No fear. This is right.”
“You sure?” she asks me, adorable self-consciousness folding her brow.
“Certain,” I tell her. “Now get your ass moving. You have shit to do today.”
Greg and Paul arrive fifteen minutes later, and thankfully they also appear a little worse for wear. I guess they were drinking harder last night than I realized. Both look like they just rolled out of bed, still unsure of their motivation.
“Chloe was in the darkroom late,” I say, walking to the curb, a cup of coffee in my hand. “She over slept. She’ll be down in a minute.”
They look at me, then at each other, a question hanging over their heads.
“Another pair of hands will make it go faster.” An easy excuse for my presence. “You guys want a cup of coffee while we wait?”
They nod.
Coffee—good coffee—can smooth over a lot of rough edges. Greg and Paul both brighten once the caffeine begins to kick in.
When Chloe finally shows we’re only fifteen minutes late to pick up the truck. Greg drives us in a ten-year-old Honda with its loud muffler and slipping clutch.
Her storage unit isn’t large, but it is full; mostly with boxes of books. She owns more books, I’ll wager, than ten average college juniors combined. Chloe is a reader. I’m not surprised.
With four of us working we clear the space in no time, loading the truck with boxes and bins. Two hours later, Chloe’s apartment is stacked with boxes of books, art supplies, and the balance of her few other Earthly possessions. It’ll probably take her a few days to sort through the chaos, putting the apartment together, but I for one, am glad she’s moved in.
“Are we done?” I ask.
Everyone nods.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Somebody said something about pizza.”
